Page:Works of Tagore from the Modern Review, 1909-24 Segment 1.pdf/107

Rh ing for a death of ethereal beauty, shady and reposeful, set all hearts a-quiver.

Forgetful of the Court, forgetful of the king, forgetful of friends and enemies, fame and obloquy, victory and defeat, proposition and reply, forgetful of everything else,—Shekhar seemed to be standing alone amidst the seclusion of his heart-bower, as he sang of the music of Krishna's flute. Before his mind's eye stood only a bright ideal figure; in his ears rang only the tinkle of anklets on a pair of velvet feet. Closing his song, the poet sat down like one benumbed; and an unspeakable sweetness, a vast universal sense of loneliness and longing, filled the Audience Hall. None could cry applause on him.

When the force of this emotion had abated a little, Pundarik stood up confronting the throne. He asked, "What is Rádhá and what is Krishna?" and then glanced all around. Smiling at his followers he repeated the question, and then began to answer it himself with a marvellous display of erudition.

He said, "Rádhá stands for the mystic syllable Om, and Krishna for meditative trance, while Brindában symbolises the central spot of the forehead between the two eyebrows." He dragged into his exposition every apparatus of yoga,—the navel, the heart, the cerebral focus. One after another he gave every conceivable meaning of the syllables rá and dhá, and of all the letters of Krishna's name taken separately. In one interpretation he put forward Krishna as symbolic of yajna and Rádhá as the holy fire, in another Krishna as the Vedas and Rádhá as the six branches of philosophy, then he took Krishna as education and Rádhá as initiation, Krishna as argument, Rádhá as conclusion, or Rádhá as controversy and Krishna as victory.

Then he glanced at the king, the scholars, and—with a scornful smile, at Skekhar, and sat down.

The king was entranced by Pundarik's wonderful powers; the amazement of the scholars knew no bounds; and these new metaphorical explanations of Krishna and Rádhá utterly swept away the song of the flute, the murmur of the Jamuna, and the intoxication of love;—as if some one wiped away the fresh verdant hue of Spring from the face of the earth, and spread all over it a coating of the sacred cowdung! Shekhar felt his song of so many years to be vain. After this he could not muster strength enough to sing. The assembly broke up for the day.

On the third day, Pundarik showed his wonderful mastery of language by constructing acrostics, anagrams, riddles, epigrams, quibbles, paragrams, antitheses, rondeaux, oxymorons, paradoxes, &c. On hearing these the assembled audience could not control their wonder.

The verses that Shekhar used to frame were exceedingly simple,—the public used them in joy and sorrow, festivity and ceremony. Today they saw clearly that these verses had no merit, that they themselves could have composed them if they had but wished it,—only their want of practice, indifference or lack of leisure had prevented them from writing such poetry! For, the words were not particularly new or hard, they taught nothing new to the world, nor gave one any new advantage. But what they heard today was a marvellous thing! Pundarik's discourse, even of the day before, had been full of thought and instruction. They looked upon their own poet as a mere boy or ordinary writer by the side of Pundarik's erudition and subtlety.

The lily feels every impact of the secret agitation in the pond set up by the tails of fishes. So, too, Shekhar perceived in his heart the secret feelings of the audience around himself.

This day was the last one of the contest. Today the award of victory would be made. The king cast a sharp glance at his poet, as if to say, "Try your utmost. It will not do to remain unanswering today."

Languidly did Shekhar stand up, and he spoke these words and no more. "O, white-armed goddess of the lyre! if you desert your lake of lotuses and appear at this wrestling arena today, what will be the fate of your adorers who thirst for nectar?" Slightly raising his eyes he asked this tenderly, as if "the white-armed goddess of the lyre" were standing behind the lattice-screen of the harem gallery, gazing down on the scene!

With a boisterous laugh, Pundarik sprang to his feet, and seizing the last two